


Collecting shadows

by blank_ghost



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Brothers fic, Gen, pre Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blank_ghost/pseuds/blank_ghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the golden sons of Asgard return from their first campaign away from home, two stories are told. <br/>Of how Thor fought like his blood was afire and Loki… the deserter. <br/>Brothers fic, no Thorki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collecting shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to both Becky and Akari for going over this mess for me! <3 
> 
> Don't forget to follow my tumblr if you haven't; for writing related updates and all around frostiron goodness. Blank-ghost . tumblr . com

  
“Loki?”   
      
Thor’s call echoes through the choking smoke that clouds the battlefield, the settling dust making his voice rebound and bounce through the canyon. The only response was the clamor of dying chaos.    
  
    Crimson skies threaten to spill rain upon the already soiled battlefield and thunder rumbles in the distance as he heels his horse into a trot, waving a path through the gathering Asgardian warriors, Mjölnir hums at his side, echoing the call of its element. As Thor comes up to a small group of guard members, their golden armor dulled by mud and blood, he slows his steed. “Have you seen Loki?”   
  
    The nearest warrior’s eyes search the horizon for a moment before shaking his helm-covered head. “Sorry, my lord. Perhaps he stayed behind with the scribes, as is his way. Battle has never been the prince‘s enjoyment.”  
  
    “Mind your tongue,” Thor rebukes, “he is my brother.” Not giving the warrior time to reply, Thor clicks his tongue to drive Skinfaxi on, his gloved hands clenching into fists around the reigns.    
  
    He travels further from the battlefield, edging to the dead, black forest that surrounds it, where bands of resilient dwarves reside in the shadows—and still he sees no sign of his wayward sibling.  
  
    “BROTHER?!”    
  
    His panic coats each word, painting them with worry and fear. His golden steed, Skinfaxi, tosses his head and echoes Thor’s cry as he is spurred on.   
  
    Thor had egged Loki to come to the frontlines with him, to ride together as the shining princes of Asgard in their first battle from home. He regrets it now, as worry chokes his throat like vines wringing the life out of a sapling.  
  
    If something has happened to Loki… Thor refuses to let his mind wander to that.  
  
    “LOKI!?”   
  
    He pushes his steed on, as he sees a familiar shape not far past a creek running deep crimson with gore. Loki’s own black warhorse, Hrímfaxi, stands proud and mountless, his reigns caught in a bare bramble. Stopping, Thor twists about in his saddle, freeing his brother‘s horse as he searches the horizon for a familiar set of horns.  
  
    “LO-”  
  
    “If you do not stop your shouting, the dead will rise from Hel itself to silence you, brother.” Loki’s voice rises up from the creek bed as he extracts himself from the sludge, sneering at Thor and ripping Hrimfaxi’s reigns from his hand. Thor smiles at the sight of his brother’s pale face, stained with soot and blood.   
  
    “You are well!”   
  
    “If this is well, Thor, I am loath to be fatigued.”   
  
    “Then you are battle weary, brother, there is no ill in that. Why are you off Hrímfaxi? Did you feel the need to battle face to face with the short foe?” he grins, Skinfaxi shifting under him and letting out a great breath of steamed air.   
  
    Loki rolls his eyes, and pulls himself back into the saddle, giving a grunt of pain. “Yes, brother, I was so overcome with the need to fight, I fled the only high ground to roll amongst the muck and blood with the beasts,” he scoffs, turning the large warhorse about and leaning low to pluck his horns, dented and bloody, from the ground.   
  
    “Why were you, then?” Thor asks, knowing Loki‘s biting jests when he sees them. His stallion falls into step with Loki’s as they weave their way across the war-torn field.   
  
    Loki leans back until the rain, which has started to fall from the overcast sky, hits his face. Nidavellir is healing itself from the wounds of battle. “I was thrown.”   
  
    “Hrímfaxi threw you?” Thor questions with wide eyes, swiping his helm off and using the back of his gloved hand to wipe sweat and rain from his brow. “He has never thrown you before.”   
  
    Loki sighs heavily, grimacing as the act jostles his wounds. “The spear head threw me, to be technical, Thor.”   
  
    “You are wounded?!” Thor gasps, stretching across the horses to grip his brother’s shoulder. All he got for his effort was Loki’s cross look.  
  
    “It was war, brother, not personal.” Loki scoffs, with a twist of his lips. “I assure you, the dwarves fared worse than I when I turned my blades on them.”   
  
    “We will go to the healers, then.” Thor knows, just as Loki does, that the Dwarves of Nidavellir favor poisons on their blades.   
  
    “We will not!” Loki protests, wrapping an arm around his waist and digging his heels into Hrimfaxi’s side, spurring the horse on at a faster pace. The battlefield leads them through a rain soaked canyon before their tents come into view.   
  
    Thor watches his brother closely as they ride; the way he leans in the saddle because of the injury. But he knows Loki’s obstinate nature—if Loki says, “no” about something, then there is no power in all the nine realms that can change his stubborn mind.  
  
     “Are we done beating the dull beasts?“ He asks as Thor brings his horse to a trot to keep up.   
  
    “Well, I’d have liked to battle one last time, but if you are hurt, we will see a healer, and then return home,” Thor says, glancing at his brother.   
  
    Loki lets out a hiss, matching the wet, angry cat look he‘s sporting. “I will not. I should have never told you.”  
  
    “And wait until you fall from your ride again for me to find out?” Thor jokes, but his jubilant tone drops away as Loki leans heavily to the one side, Hrímfaxi trotting to the side as his rider becomes unbalanced in the saddle.   
  
    “Stubborn fool!” Thor says gruffly, grabbing his brother by the elbow and righting the darker godling despite his low whine of protest. “Will you allow me to treat your wound?”   
  
    Loki startles out of his stupor, jolting his horse who tosses his head in an almost mirror image of his rider. “No!”   
  
    “I am not a complete fool Loki. I can use a healing stone.”  
  
    “It is not that bad.”   
  
    “Then I can use warm water and bandages, little brother.” He draws the moniker out almost as a threat, leaning closer to Loki, eyes sharp on the younger man.   
  
    Loki looks to be gathering an argument, although his silver tongue is slowed by his exhausted state. Thor raises a finger to stop him.   
  
    “I will tell mother.”  
  
    Loki’s green eyes narrow to poisonous slits, knowing when he’s been defeated. “You traitor.”  
  
    Thor only grins wide. “Or we could go to the healers.”   
  
    “Or you could die.”   
  
    “Your words wound me brother!” he says, unable to hold back his laugh, keeping a close eye on Loki as he slips himself off Hrímfaxi at the gates to the encampment, stumbling on his long legs but tenaciously carrying on.   
  
      Sometimes Thor questions everyone’s assessment that he is the dim-witted brother. Loki may have a grater grasp and love for learning, but his own emotions tend to pull him in foul directions. It’s a worry Thor has, equally to Loki’s worries about Thor’s battle lust.   
  
    Dismounting Skinfaxi and allowing a stable boy to take the warhorse, he trudges through the mud to their tents, the crimson, green and gold battlements whipping in the rain and wind above his head.   
  
    “Do not make our first campaign from home a miserable one, Loki. You’ve enjoyed yourself up to this point.” Thor says, pushing past the tent flaps and kicking off his boots. Loki eyes him as he pulls at the buckles of his own riding boots, neither wanting to get mud and blood through the rest of their makeshift home.  
  
    “I am ill fit for the battlefield brother. I prefer my wars to be fought from a distance, where I can see all the moves.”   
  
    Thor huffs, unclasping his armor and keeping a weary eye on Loki. “Some times you need to be reminded of the feel of blood on your hands.”   
  
    “I’d much prefer it not be my own,” Loki scolds, righting himself and clasping a hand against his side. In the flame lit tent the leather is slick and rust colored. Making no further move to remove his armor Loki ambles forward.  
  
    “You lied to me, brother, you said the wound is not bad.” A frown twists at Thor’s lips as he drops his own armor away until he is left in his under tunic and soft suede underpants. It feels good to be free of the heavy burden and he can’t help but dig his bare toes into the furs that make up the floor of their tent.  
  
    “I may have under exaggerated,” Loki says, sitting himself down slowly on a long couch and turning tired eyes up to Thor as he approaches. “Did not the mortals of Midgars call me a god of lies?”  
  
    “And chaos. They named you wrong. You should have been deemed the god of biting comments.”  
  
    “And you the god of blundering drunks,” Loki grins, the smile sloppy for once, his sharp edges dulled by blood loss, showing just how wounded he is.   
  
    Breathing out a heavy sigh Thor sets to the task of removing his brother’s armor, the younger man yielding under his touch for once, hissing in breaths of pain as he has to raise the arm on the side of the wound.   
  
    “Mother will feed me to the hounds for this,” Thor groans, trying to add a little bit of a smile into his tone and failing as he pulls Loki’s soft cotton tunic up over his head. The ugly maw of a wound on Loki’s side is seeping slowly, the skin around it painted purple and blue with bruising.   
  
    Even discounting the factor of poison, infection is a swift killer in the battlefield, and already Thor fears the wound has been sitting untreated for too long.  
  
    Loki stiffens under his prodding hands as Thor assesses the area, hissing in a breath between clenched teeth until Thor pulls away. “The poor dogs will get some foul disease from your corpse. Mother would never do that to them.”   
  
    Thor only grunts in response, pressing his bear paw of a hand to Loki’s forehead to feel for warmth.   
  
    “It was not poisoned, Thor, simply sharp,” Loki breaths out in a soft sigh.   
  
    “Your magic tells you this?”   
  
    Loki leans back far enough to free himself from Thor’s touch, his hair falling back from his face. “My head tells me this.”   
  
    “Your head tells you many things, Loki. I question the logic of most of them,” Thor says, not wanting to press the issue though, with Loki abnormally compliant under his touch. His brother has always been like an animal when wounded, prone to spooking and hiding away in dark corners until illness drags him down.   
  
    Here in the war-ridden depths of Nidavellir, Loki’s quests to go into hiding when wounded could bring him to the gates of Valhalla quickly.    
  
    Padding across the tent to a waiting bowl of water, he snags clean cloths sitting to the side for washing.   
  
    “Your head is the one full of such unpleasant things, Thor.” Loki’s voice drifts lazily across the tent to him as he opens a nearby jar of soothing herbs, dumping the dried leaves into the warm water.   
  
    The herbs are mainly for relaxing battle-tired muscles but he hopes it will be of some use to Loki.  
  
    “Mine? I thought it was you who always says my head is full of nothing,” he jests, inhaling the deep woodsy scents rising from the bowl before turning, arching an eyebrow at Loki who’s nodding enthusiastically.   
  
    “It is full of nothing, good brother.”   
  
    Thor hums softly in reply, sitting down next to Loki and passing his brother the bowl. “Hold this.”   
  
    “Demanding,” Loki scoffs but takes the bowl into his hands, shifting his hold to push the leaves about, his dirty fingers tainting the water.   
  
    “Yes. Do not dirty the water,” Thor chuckles, pawing his brothers invading fingers away. Dipping the washcloth into it, he rings it out before pressing it to the wound.   
  
    Loki gasps in a breath and his grip on the bowl goes knuckle white, his emerald eyes closing tight as they fill with tears.   
  
    Guilt grips Thor hard as he keeps the damp wash towel to Loki’s side even as the thinner man twists away from the pain.  
  
    “Do I need to kiss it better?” he can’t help but joke, trying to bring Loki’s attention away from the wound and the herbal water seeping into it.   
  
    “Kiss me and I will remove your tongue through your throat with my teeth.” Loki hisses. His voice lacks venom though, and he cracks his eyes open to look over at Thor.   
  
    “Such brotherly love,” Thor breaths out in a heavy sigh, removing the damp towel and dipping it back into the water. A guard, rain running in rivulets down the golden armor and staining the furs at his mud-soaked boots, pushes into the tent, halting any further action.   
  
    “My lords, the eastern front has fallen. The dark elves have joined the dwarf’s forces under Dáinn. You must ride.”   
  
    The warrior’s voice brooks no argument even though he’s speaking to both of Asgard’s crowned princes. Their youth gives them a lack of respect amongst the ranks, even with their birthrights.   
  
    Loki rises to his feet first, setting the bowl to his side on the couch, forgotten, his hand resting over the wound, fresh blood already soaking between long fingers. “Come, Thor. You may get your battle yet.”   
  
    Thor grits his teeth in anger, grabbing Loki’s arm and pulling him back slowly. “I will ride, you will stay.”   
  
    “You will ride with my boot up your arse if you do not let me go, brother.” Loki hisses through his teeth and Thor bites his tongue to stop himself from reminding Loki that he is not wearing boots at the moment. The guard watches quietly, his reproachful gaze itching the back of Thor’s neck.   
  
    “Then we ride out together again, and you do not leave my side.”   
  
    Loki seems to consider this, his lips twisted into a frown even as his brow furrows in pain. “Fine,” he snarls and, looking to the guard, commands, “Ready our horses.”   
  
    The warrior bows low and steps backward out into the rain.   
  
    “Loki,” Thor calls his brother’s name softly, standing and clasping his thin shoulders in his hands, unsure if the fevered warmth he feels soaking through his brother’s skin is a thing of his imagination or not.   
  
    Taking a deep breath Thor nods his head in acceptance, slowly dropping one hand down to his side and fisting it. “I worry for you.”  
  
    “Don’t be such a hen,” Loki scoffs, not even having time to flinch as Thor shifts back and throws his weight behind his fist.   
  
    It’s not the first time he’s struck his brother, although definitely the first time it’s been to protect him, rather than out of petty anger. He hits Loki hard and fast and quickly makes to gather Loki’s limp body into his arms before the slighter man can hit the furs.   
  
    “You will forgive me brother, but I can not have you riding into battle wounded,” he says under his breath as he checks the strong beat of Loki’s pulse under his fingers. Bringing him to the cot, he quickly arranges his brother into a restful position.   
  
    “Guard!” he calls out, buckling his armor into place once more and stealing glances at Loki’s resting body. The bruise on his forehead is going to put his brother in an unpleasant mood by morning, but Thor could think of no other way to get Loki to stay.   
  
    “Bring me Skinfaxi and then stay at the tent’s mouth to guard him. Loki is staying here,” he orders, making his voice hard as steel, hard as their father’s. His eyes leave no room for arguments as he grasps Mjölnir in his hand.   
  
    The guard nods once before fleeing to the stables.   
  
    Bringing in a deep breath, Thor grounds his emotions, smelling the earthy scents of the tent, the distant smell of rain and battle, the stink of blood carried on the storm.   
  
    War.   
  
    It clears his head enough that he’s able to turn away from his wounded brother after one final look.

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN:( more shorts to be added depending on time and my muse.)


End file.
